


I'll Cry Instead

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad Ending, Crying, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sad, this is just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the wake of Paul's death, John misses the love that he once had. And as the rain beats down on him, he can't escape the memories that swim constantly in his head. He's so angry. He's so tired. He's so heartbroken. He misses Paul and he hates the rain and he wants to scream, but he can't, so he'll cry, instead.John wishes the bus would get here sooner, in case an unwanted guest shows up.~~~My entry for the BFPB Writing Party Prompt: Sharing An Umbrella. Sorry in advance.
Relationships: Billy Shears/John Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	I'll Cry Instead

**Author's Note:**

> Angst. Only angst. Also petition to make John/Billy's ship name "Shlennon" from here on out, because it's funny to say.

_ Rain is cold, and John has never liked it. In fact, it’s safe to say he hates it. Yeah, he does. He fucking despises it, the way that it makes him shiver when it soaks through his clothes, through his skin, and seeps into his bones; chilling him from the inside out. He hates rain so much, he really does. And yet, John somehow never remembers to bring an umbrella.  _

_ He laughs bitterly as the first raindrops fall onto his styled-up hairdo, knowing that the Elvis-esque look he’d been going for will inevitably end up glued uncomfortably to his forehead. He swears quietly as he looks up to glare angrily at the brewing, darkening storm clouds. The sky, in retaliation, threw a huge raindrop directly into John’s eye, prompting more swearing -- just louder this time. Paul giggled. _

_ John looked across the picnic bench at his friend, blinking rapidly to get the water out of his eye. He opened his mouth to complain, but at Paul’s pretty and smiling face, he felt a tiny grin break out. It was silly, that’s what it was. He felt his annoyance, maybe anger, melt away. How could he be upset when he was looking into those warm, chocolate eyes? _

_ A raindrop hit his cheek, and his face immediately fell back into a scowl. Oh. That’s how.  _

_ Paul turned away from the pout on John’s face to rummage in his bag, and pulled out a small, blue umbrella. He struggled with it for a moment, his face twisting up as he pinched his hand in the spokes, before it popped open. He let out a tiny triumphant hum, before looking back at John, who was looking particularly sour as wet spots began to appear on his shirt. _

_ “What are you doing?” Paul giggled. John made a face at him, and Paul laughed harder. “Get under the umbrella, you moron,” he explained, putting his backpack on the dry ground under the table to make room for John next to him. The older boy visibly brightened and quickly pushed his bag under the table, too, before jogging over to sit next to Paul, who laughed. _

_ “Oi, ‘s not funny,” John muttered, elbowing Paul a little bit, the scowl on his face softening as he sat next to Paul, their legs and shoulders brushing. He sighed contentedly as he stopped getting wet, shaking his hair out a little bit and hmmph-ing in annoyed resignation when it flopped into his eyes. Paul snickered again, and John glared playfully.  _

_ “I’m sorry! It’s just a little funny,” the black-haired boy teased, eyes shining prettily as he grinned at John. Christ, he could lose himself in those pretty, big eyes. He might. He blinked, and tuned back in. _

_ “My suffering’s funny to you, eh Paulie?” he demanded, all the venom gone from his voice now. He smiled, despite himself, as Paul laughed again.  _

_ “Oh, you’re such a drama queen,” Paul said, reaching up with his unoccupied hand to push John’s hair back out of his face and behind his ear. John smiled. “There we go,” His hand lingered on the side of John’s face for a moment and he looked deep into John’s eyes for just a second, and then he looked away and blushed with an awkward giggle. _

_ “Thank you,” John found himself looking away too, his own face heating up.  _

_ “Welcome, Johnny,” Paul hummed, rubbing the toes of his shoes together nervously. The rain picked up and the wind whistled softly, and John made a noise of displeasure as his back got a little wet, earning another giggle from Paul. _

_ “Shut up,” the auburn-haired boy grumbled, smiling just slightly. _

_ “Let’s go home, then, come on.” Paul reached under the table for his bag, and John stuck his foot out to pull his closer so he could grab it too. The younger man held up the umbrella as John got himself situated, and then they started walking home. “Why do you hate the rain so much?” Paul asked, raising his voice over the loud clattering over the rain in the street. _

_ “Nothin’ profound about it,” John shrugged, “I just don’t like getting wet.” _

_ “Fair enough,” Paul giggled, using his free hand to open the cemetery gate. It was a shortcut home, and that’s a good thing when you’re caught in the rain. The black-haired boy shivered at the wind and rain, looking around and frowning at the pretty, white flowers that were being beaten by the storm’s anger, laid respectfully on a marble gravestone that read ‘Eleanor Rigby’ in faded text.  _

_ John opened his mouth to say something, but lightning crackled and thunder interrupted him. Him and Paul stopped cold and locked their wide eyes. _

_ “Run?” John suggested, smiling weakly. _

_ “Run!” Paul agreed, and another clap of thunder seconded that decision.  _

_ The boys broke into a sprint, laughing and swearing occasionally as the umbrella became a little less helpful, Paul switching his umbrella hand so he could hold John’s wrist and not lose him. John paused his running to lace their fingers properly, before taking off again. Paul barked a laugh, rain kicking up behind them as they jumped over puddles, and sometimes landed in them.  _

_ They must’ve ran for two minutes, tops, but it felt like way more as the sky pelted them with all the stormy fury he could muster. They were both panting, but they could just barely make out John’s house in the distance, so they found enough energy to keep going. _

_ “This is bullshit!” John shouted over the weather, laughing. Paul only laughed, trying not to slip on the wet grass and faceplant. _

_ They landed on John’s doorstep, and John started fumbling for his keys, his backpack pocket considerably harder to get into with wet fingers, shaking hands, and a slippery zipper. A triumphant noise escaped him as he pulled the keys out and struggled to jam the keys in the door, but Paul grabbed his shoulder. _

_ “Wait, John!” Paul shouted over a clap of thunder. “I have to go home, -- I can’t stay,” he explained, frowning. John paused, and leaned away from the lock. He sighed, rain drenching him as he stood only halfway under the umbrella. He looked quickly up and down the empty street and then at Paul’s pretty, rain-speckled face.  _

_ He took a step closer and grabbed Paul by his tie, pulling until their lips crashed together. Paul’s eyes fluttered shut, pressing back, until John let him go. They stumbled apart, though not too far, because what’s the point of an umbrella you aren’t standing under? John sighed as he dropped his hand from Paul’s chest and his lips twitched into a tiny smile as he registered the blush forming on his friend’s soft and freckled cheeks. _

_ “Call me when you get home so I know you didn’t catch cold, yeah?” John asked, clearing his throat.  _

_ “Y- yeah!” Paul grinned, and dashed off into the storm. _

_ John stood in the rain just a little longer to watch him.  _

_ He turned the key, and-- _

It didn’t matter, anyway. 

That was then, and this was now.

Now was lonely. 

John untucked his hand from the crease of his elbow to check his wristwatch, looking around the dark street corner skeptically, before folding his arms even tighter and letting out a shuddering breath against the cold. It was just biting enough to bother him, and he shivered as a gust of wind and slight mist swept across the road. 

Only a few more minutes until the bus showed up. 

He dropped his head, groaning when his neck cracked. He kicked a rock on the pavement and sighed, the breath somewhere between wistful and downright bitter. He missed Paul. Fuck, he missed Paul so fucking much. 

If tears started to brim in his eyes, he blinked them away.

It was so unfair. It was so unfair that John was alone on this street corner as fog swirled around him, leaving him cold and alone with the wisps of lost memories dancing in front of his tired and weary eyes. He hated this, God, he hated it  _ so fucking much _ , he just wanted to scream. 

He still didn’t understand why Paul had been taken from him. And by a fucking car crash, of all things. A sour laugh escaped him. The world had a specific way of robbing him of the people he loved, he guessed, and kicked the sidewalk again in anger. 

He was angriest that he had left it on a bad note with Paul. They had been arguing, arguing about that stupid fucking song for that graveyard girl. Because John was selfish and angry and fragile.

That was the worst part, that it was all John’s fault. 

He shivered again and tightened his grip on himself where his arms were crossed.

_ John had gotten angry, that day, because Paul had asked Ringo and George what they thought. Paul had included them in something that John’s selfishness and diffidence had decided was  _ **_theirs_ ** _ , and theirs only. It was John-and-Paul’s, and no one else had a part in it. Wasn’t he enough for Paul? Didn’t Paul trust his opinion? Was John not a talented enough musician, that Paul needed a third and fourth opinion? _

_ And that’s what John had said, more or less. Well, it involved a lot more swearing and shouting and mean things that he would take back if he could, but that was the gist. The whole event was a blur, maybe because John was blind with rage and insecurity, or maybe because his brain had taken pity on him and tried to erase that last argument from his mind so he could get even a little sleep at night.  _

He scoffed aloud, because he still can’t sleep. It’s been a year, he hardly remembers their final argument, and every night he’s too cold and too heartbroken and too Paulless to ever find peace enough to rest. He only sleeps when his body  _ commands _ it, gives him no other option, and even then it’s restless sleep filled with dreams and nightmares of Paul.

_ Because for as much as he could no longer remember, John just  _ **_couldn’t_ ** _ forget one thing, and it was that the last thing he ever said to Paul was;  _

**_“Fuck you, Macca! I don’t love you either!”_ **

_ Those were the last words Paul would  _ **_ever_ ** _ hear John speak. _

_ And then Paul slammed the door behind himself, and that was it.  _

_ He was gone. _

_ But John could never have anticipated that he would be gone for good. And when he walked into the studio the next morning, he already had the bullet points for the desperate apology he was going to make, because he didn’t mean any of it, and he was  _

_ really,  _

_ truly,  _

_ terribly, _

_ sorry. _

_ He couldn’t live without Paul, and that’s what he was going to say, because he spent the whole night tossing anxiously and wondering if Paul knew it, knew that John loved him so much it consumed him whole, and he could never mean something like that if he tried.  _

John checked his watch again. The bus was late. 

Fuck, he wanted to stop thinking about this.

The mist of the rain turned into a slight drizzle.

_ But he pushed open that door and instead of finding early-bird Paul waiting for him, he found George. _

_ On the floor. _

_ Sobbing his eyes out like John had never seen before. _

He sniffled slightly at the memory of George’s red eyes and puffy face, the pure picture of absolute devastation. __

_ He dropped his guitar haphazardly, barely even wincing at the hollow noise his case made when it hit the floor. He sprinted to George’s side, falling to his knees and holding George protectively. _

_ He’d always seen Geo like his baby brother, or something akin to that. It didn’t matter, he loved George, and couldn’t stand seeing him in pain. _

_ “Georgie, Christ, what’s wrong?” He remembered trying to pull George into his lap, but the younger guitarist couldn’t move to help him, just collapsed against his chest and sobbed. He sounded like heartbreak, his breath coming out in coughs and broken cries. “Talk to me, Haz, come on,” John begged, feeling tears prick at his own eyes, seeing his friend in so much pain.  _

_ George took in a shaky and choked breath, lifted his head to look at John, and immediately breaking down again, a pitiful whimper mixed with a desperate sob clawing out of his throat as he cried and cried and cried. The noise was the most terrible thing John would ever have the misfortune of hearing, except maybe what George said next. _

_ “P- Paul,” he struggled, holding onto John as tight as he could, “‘e’s gone, J- Johnny, he- he- he,” George burst into a fresh set of tears.  _

_ John didn’t understand. Gone? He was here, just yesterday evening. _

_ “What do you mean, ‘gone,’ Georgie? Where’s ‘e gone to?” he asked, stroking George’s hair frantically, trying to calm him down.  _

_ “No, no, no!” he gasped. “John, h- h- h- he,” the brunette coughed again, “Paul is d- d-  _ **_dead_ ** _ , fuck,” he stammered, crying brokenly into John’s sweater.  _

_ John’s heart shattered, right there on the floor.  _

_ He held George tighter than he’d ever known he could. He probably would’ve screamed in agony if all the energy wasn’t instantly sucked from him. He started to cry, and the door swung open again. Ringo wordlessly walked over to them, his own face as rashy and wet as theirs. He sank to his knees, too, and held them both tight.  _

Paul was dead. 

John shivered as a stray raindrop went under his collar, and he rocked back and forth on his feet. He needed to stop reliving this, needed to move past all this pain. 

Then again, it was his fault, thereby his burden. Or, at least, that was what he told himself. 

He stepped off the curb to look down the street, as if the bus might appear if he willed it to.

It didn’t. 

He sighed heavily and got back on the pavement, noticing little wet spots appearing on the shoulders of his shirt. 

John jammed his hands in his pockets and tried not to wish too hard for that young boy he once fell in love with to show up with an umbrella to share.

He tapped his foot anxiously, before pulling his hand out of his pocket to check his watch again. Fuck, six minutes late. He supposed it was the rain, rain’s usually a catalyst for traffic and slow schedules.

Speaking of the rain; it started to pick up again, and hard this time. Those tiny wet dots on John’s sleeves became wet splatters that went through the material of his clothing straight to his skin, and it tore him from whatever painful nightmare, memory, or amalgamation of those two things his brain planned on putting him through.

The leader of The Beatles tightened up his muscles, trying to use the tension to keep himself warm. He knew that he’d probably be sore from it later, but somewhere, he registered that it might drain him enough to let him fall asleep, and he so desperately needed rest. 

His teeth began to chatter loudly as the rain turned into a downpour, flattening his relatively short hair and drenching him through to the skin. Soaking him whole, chilling him from the inside out. He hunched his back and clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and hugged himself tightly. 

_ John remembers the cold and bleak funeral. He remembers holding George’s hand so tight it hurt, both of them squeezing like it was their last anchor to reality, as Ringo cleared his throat to speak for the procession.  _

_ He remembers staring at the casket, the  _ **_closed_ ** _ casket, knowing that his friend was in there, in mangled pieces, all because John was a sensitive bitch who took offense to nothing. _

He hated this, he hated it, he wanted the bus to show up and he wanted to get out of the rain and he wanted an umbrella and he wanted Paul.

The rain stopped.

“You’re going to catch cold, love,” a voice icier than the weather spoke, and John opened his eyes. 

He didn’t look at the speaker, at first. He looked up, and noticed the big, navy blue umbrella over his head. The rain still splashed around him, jumping around on the street and blurring the scenery.

John inhaled a sharp breath.

The man holding the umbrella laughed. “Oh come on, Johnny. Where’s my, ‘Sorry, Paul! Thank you, Paul!’? I sure deserve one, you know, saving you from the weather,” he chuckled, wrapping his free arm loosely around John’s waist. The guitarist stiffened.

“You’ll get that the day that you’re Paul.” John felt his lower lip tremble slightly. 

“I am, you know, in the flesh,” the black-haired man said, his voice charming in the same way that a snake’s hissing is.

“The hell you are,  _ Billy _ .”

John spat out the younger man’s name like it was a curse, a disease, and it was. Even saying it made John absolutely sick to his stomach, filled him with dread and cold like even the rain never could. 

“My, my,” Billy hummed, taunting eyes scanning John’s downcast face for a minute. “Sometimes I forget what a mouth you have on you.”

“You ought to be used to it,” John huffed, anger and pain crawling through his veins like a living force. He took a step off of the pavement into the street, and-

The grip on John’s waist tightened, the sharp nails of the bassist’s left hand dug suddenly and painfully into Lennon’s hipbone, prompting a choked-off noise of pain from John as he was reattached firmly to Billy’s side.

“You shouldn’t go very far, Johnny,” he purred, the velvet of his voice dragging uncomfortably in John’s ears. “We have a bus to catch!”

“ _ We _ ,” John growled, gesturing weakly between them, “don’t have shit. Leave me alone, I don’t want anything to do with you.” The angry snarl of his voice subsided as the hand on his waist gripped tighter, stinging and bone crushing, and John swallowed a pitiful whimper as the pain worsened.

“Shh,” Billy hushed him, and that only made John even more pissed. How  _ dare _ he? How  _ fucking dare _ he??? “There’s no reason to be angry, Johnny,” he chastised, and that didn’t help either. What a fucking bastard, John was gonna kill him! He was gonna kill him.

“I have got  _ every reason on Earth _ -” to be mad. John stammered and fell completely silent.

He remembered that song.

He remembered  _ writing _ that song.

He wrote it with Paul.

“That’s it, John,” Billy mumbled, leaning over to whisper into John’s ear. “Know your place,” he breathed, nosing John’s short, auburn hair slightly. “I’m the leader of the band.”

John fumed and tensed up, balling his fists so unbearably tight that his nails dug uncomfortably into the skin of his palm, his arms shaking with the effort. He was so fucking pissed. Billy thought he could come here,  _ replace _ his Paul, the love of his life, and put him down??

He wanted to scream, and he wanted to kill Billy.

John knelt for no one, not anymore, and certainly not for Billy fucking Shears. John felt his whole body start shivering violently, the sound of the pounding rain and his rushing blood thrumming in his ears, his vision was blurry and everything was red. 

He hated Billy.

_ If I could get my way, I’d get myself locked up today. _

Billy’s hand on John’s waist traded sharpened nails for tight, almost bruising pressure. John’s head swam as the pain swirled and his emotions fogged up his functions. He opened his eyes, or maybe blinked them, and noticed the headlights of the bus appear, lighting up the raindrops as they crashed onto the asphalt. 

He stopped shaking, and he felt his knees weaken beneath him as he became dizzy. The anger vanished from him. 

He didn’t have the energy to be angry anymore. 

He was so weak.

He was so tired.

_ But I can’t. _

Billy caught him as he nearly crashed to the ground, collapsing out of sheer exhaustion.

“That’s it, it’s okay,” he whispered, holding John against him, the sugar in his voice sickeningly sweet. Lennon only let out a whine in response.

John couldn’t be mad anymore, he physically couldn’t. He was just heartbroken, and he couldn’t stop it as tears welled up in his eyes and broken sobs and whimpers escaped his trembling, chapped, and bitten lips. 

Tears flowed down his cheeks faster than the rain poured around them, and John wanted to scream and break something and get Billy  _ off of him- _

But he just couldn’t anymore. There was nothing left, he could barely stand, his head swam as his vision blurred, everything muddled by his tears.

_ So I’ll cry. _

The bus pulled up and the door swung open.

Billy tightened his grip on John’s waist, and helped him move wobbly legs onto the bus platform through body-wracking sobs and weak shivers. 

_ Instead. _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.


End file.
